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Chapter Eleven

Jackson

I reach across the bed, my hand finding nothing but rumpled sheets and the faint scent of her perfume on my pillow. For a split second, I think maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's ordering room service. Maybe she's—

My brain explodes as I see them across the room.

The annulment papers, sitting on the nightstand like a fucking execution notice. Signed in her careful handwriting. Final. Done.

"What the hell," I breathe, grabbing the documents, standing buck-ass naked in the hotel room, my jaw dropping to the fucking floor.

Her signature stares back at me, all neat loops and decisive strokes. Like there was no hesitation. No second thoughts.

Just Cassie Hawthorne in black ink, ending whatever this was before it could become something real.

I sit down, running my hands through my hair, trying to piece together what happened.

Last night was... Christ . Last night was everything. The way she looked at me, the way she felt in my arms, the way she whispered my name like it meant something.

And now she's gone.

Like it never happened.

My chest feels hollow, scraped raw. I've been hit by defensemen who could bench-press trucks, but this? This is a different kind of pain. The kind that settles in your bones and makes it hard to breathe.

I grab my phone, hoping for a text. An explanation. Anything.

Nothing.

"Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone aside.

The rational part of my brain—the part that sounds suspiciously like Madison's agent voice—reminds me this is probably for the best.

It's the perfect clean break. With absolutely no complications.

I'm free to focus on the draft and get on with my career.

But the rest of me, the part that's been thinking about Cassie every second since I met her, wants to hunt her down and demand answers. Why did she run? What changed between last night and this morning?

I check the time on my phone. 9:47 AM.

Shit.

I'm supposed to meet Blake Maddox and the Iron Ridge team in thirteen minutes. The most important meeting of my career, and I'm sitting here naked and heartbroken, staring at annulment papers like they might rearrange themselves into a love letter.

I force myself out of bed, shoving the papers into my jacket pocket.

I'm not signing them. Not yet.

Not until I get answers.

The elevator to the Icehawks private team suite feels different to how I thought it would when I'm about to meet my heroes. Every floor that passes is another second to pull my shit together, to transform from Jackson-the-heartbroken-idiot into Jackson-Holt-future-NHL-superstar.

By the time the doors open, I've managed to arrange my face into something resembling confidence.

"Jackson!" Blake Maddox rises from a leather chair, extending his hand with that easy captain's smile I've watched on highlight reels for years. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

The suite is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip, a full bar, seating for twenty. And scattered around the room are some of the biggest names in hockey, just... sitting there. Drinking coffee. Being human.

"Come on, meet the boys," Blake says, guiding me deeper into the room.

I'm introduced to legends like they're just regular guys.

Hunter Brody, the head coach, looks me up and down with the calculating stare of someone who's seen every type of player and can spot weakness from a mile away. But his handshake is firm, approving.

"Heard good things about your work ethic," he says gruffly. "That's what matters in Iron Ridge."

Logan Kane stands in the corner, all six-foot-five of intimidating enforcer energy. He gives me a nod that somehow feels like acceptance. The scar running from his temple to his cheekbone makes him look like he's been through wars, but his eyes are surprisingly warm.

"Welcome to the family," he says simply.

Connor Walsh, the goalie, is sprawled in a chair with a coffee mug that reads "The Pucks Stop Here." He grins and winks when he sees me looking at it.

"My girlfriend got it for me," he explains. "She thinks she's hilarious."

"She's not wrong," says Ryder Scott, the youngest guy in the room besides me. He looks maybe twenty-four, with an easy smile and the kind of energy that screams rookie who hasn't been beaten down by the league yet. "Wait until you meet Lucy. She's a menace."

"Ryder's our current baby," Blake explains. "You'll take that title soon enough."

"Gladly," I say, and mean it.

This is everything I dreamed about as a kid shooting pucks in my backyard at 2 AM. Being accepted by guys like this. Being treated as an equal instead of just potential.

"So," Connor leans forward, "you ready for tonight? Ready to become Iron Ridge's golden boy?"

"Been ready my whole life," I answer automatically.

And it's true. This moment—sitting with these legends, being welcomed into their world—should be the culmination of everything I've worked for.

So why does it feel incomplete?

Why can't I stop thinking about blue eyes and the way Cassie's hair looked spread across my pillow?

"The kid's got that look," Logan observes. "Like he's seen some shit."

"Haven't we all," Hunter, the coach, mutters.

Blake settles back in his chair. "Draft night's a mind-fuck, even when you know where you're going. One minute you're a prospect, the next you're property of an organization. Your whole life changes in thirty seconds."

"Any advice?" I ask.

"Yeah," Connor grins. "Don't let the pressure get to you. And definitely don't do anything stupid before the ceremony. No Vegas marriages or DUIs or—"

My stomach drops like I've been checked into the boards.

"—not that we're worried about you," Connor continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "You seem like you've got your head on straight."

Vegas marriages. The words echo in my skull.

Blake starts talking about team culture, about what it means to wear the Iron Ridge jersey. The other guys chime in with stories, advice, jokes. I nod at the right moments, ask appropriate questions, but part of my brain is stuck on those annulment papers burning a hole in my pocket.

"I heard that the event coordinator really outdid herself this time," Ryder says, gesturing toward the windows where we can see the arena setup below. "Everything looks incredible. We're in for a good night boys."

"Big Mike's daughter knows her stuff," Connor adds. "Always has."

I freeze.

Big Mike's daughter.

The confirmation I've been dreading since Blake first mentioned the name Hawthorne the other day. I've known this moment was possible—hell, I've known it was probable —but hearing it confirmed makes it real in a way that turns my blood to ice.

Cassie Hawthorne. The woman whose annulment papers are burning a hole in my pocket.

The daughter of the man who's about to make me the face of his franchise.

She will be there tonight. She'll be there, as the woman who claims she hates hockey, hosting the event that makes me the future of the entire league.

"You okay, kid?" Logan's voice cuts through my panic. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," I croak. "Just... processing everything."

But I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything when the suite door bursts open.

"Where's my future superstar?"

I look up and Michael "Big Mike" Hawthorne fills the doorway like he owns not just this room, but the entire Vegas Strip.

He's exactly what I expected. Commanding presence, expensive suit, the kind of confidence that comes from building hockey empires.

He makes a beeline for me, and suddenly I'm being pulled into a backslapping embrace that could probably crack ribs.

"Jackson fucking Holt!" he booms. "Look at you! The future face of professional hockey!"

Everyone in the room straightens up. Even Blake defers to this man, and Blake doesn't defer to anyone.

"Mr. Hawthorne," I manage. "It's an honor."

"Big Mike. Call me Big Mike." He grips my shoulders, studying me like I'm a prize racehorse. "You know, I've been following your career since junior league. That goal you scored against Calgary? Poetry in motion, son. Fucking poetry. "

My chest swells despite everything.

This is Big Mike telling me he's been watching me. Me. The kid from a shitty upbringing who learned to cook at nine because Dad was too drunk to remember dinner existed.

"Thank you, sir. Mike. I can't tell you how much it means to—"

"None of that modest bullshit," he cuts me off with a grin. "You're about to become the cornerstone of this franchise. Multi-year deal, endorsement opportunities, the works. You're going to be making more money than you know what to do with, kid."

The other guys exchange glances.

They've all been through this song and dance, but there's something different about the way Mike talks about me. Like I'm not just another draft pick.

Like I'm the chosen one.

"I love Iron Ridge," I say, meaning it. "I've been reading all about the town, the people, the culture. I love what you've built here. This event alone is incredible, so I can't wait to see the rest."

Mike's chest puffs with pride. "Adda boy. That's all my daughter. Girl's got a gift for putting on a show. Takes after her old man when it comes to organization and attention to detail."

My blood turns to ice water.

Cassie.

"She coordinated this whole thing," Mike continues, oblivious to my growing horror. "Brilliant girl. You should meet her, actually. She's probably around here somewhere, making sure every detail is perfect, of course."

"That's... that's not necessary," I say quickly, but Mike's already moving toward the door.

"Nonsense! Come on, I'll introduce you to my beautiful baby girl."

He's not wrong. She is beautiful.

But as I feel the paper in my pocket practically burning against my chest… I've got a bad feeling about this.

The other guys follow, probably curious to see their boss in proud-father mode. I trail behind like I'm walking to my own execution, my mind racing through every possible way this could go wrong.

Spoiler alert: they're all bad.

We make our way through the event space that's been entirely transformed since I saw it yesterday.

Even I have to admit… Cassie's work is fucking incredible.

Everything is perfect, from the lighting to the banners to the way the whole space flows. She's transformed a generic hotel event room into hockey heaven.

And there she is.

Standing near the registration table in a crisp pink blazer and heels, hair pulled back in a bun, clipboard in hand. She's in full work mode, gesturing to crew members, checking items off her list and looking damn amazing doing it.

She's magnificent.

And she's about to discover I'm not just some random guy she hooked up with in Vegas. She's about to learn the answer to the question I know was on the tip of her tongue last night.

I'm a hockey player. I'm her father's prize draft pick.

And I'm everything she hates.

"Cassie!" Mike calls out, his voice booming across the room.

She turns, and for a split second, the mask slips. I see her eyes widen, see the color drain from her face as she registers that I'm standing next to her father.

Then she straightens and I'll be fucked if that mask doesn't just snap back into place like nothing happened. No accidental marriage. No amazing sex.

Nothing.

"Sweetheart, come meet your future star player!" Mike continues, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.

Cassie approaches with careful steps. Her eyes never leave mine, and I can practically see her brain working, trying to figure out how to handle this.

"Jackson Holt," Mike says proudly, "meet my daughter, Cassie Hawthorne. The woman who will announce you to the world tonight."

We stand there, staring at each other while Mike beams proudly between us. The annulment papers in my pocket feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

"Nice to meet you," Cassie says carefully, extending her hand like we're strangers.

"The pleasure's all mine," I reply, taking her hand and holding it just a second too long.

Mike claps me on the shoulder again. "Cassie's the best in the business. She could plan a wedding in a chapel and make it look like a fairy tale."

I nearly choke.

Cassie's face goes pale, but her smile never wavers.

"That's... quite a compliment, Dad."

"Well, you two will have plenty of time to get acquainted," Mike says. "Don't tell anyone, Hotshot, but I'm hoping Cassie will come home and handle our player relations events. So play nice, won't you? You'll be seeing each other regularly."

I am so fucking screwed.